Glory Days
by lithugraph
Summary: "We used to be superpowers," Gilbert said wistfully. "Not many nations can say that. I just...I miss it sometimes, you know? Things were simpler then." That was the thing with being immortal – the catch. You could always remember a time that was far better than the current one. But even memories were subject to fault. Prussia/Lithuania.


**April 1986, East Berlin**

Toris hated dinner parties.

He could remember a time when that wasn't always true. Could remember a time when he found them enjoyable. Surrounded by men in furs with swords at their hips and ladies in richly embroidered robes. Amber light cast by the fire roaring in the castle's great hall warmed the cold stone and the guests as they conversed, intimate and raucous. Of course they hadn't been called dinner parties then. _Banquet_ or _feast_ would have been more appropriate. If he closed his eyes, he could sometimes still smell the roasted boar.

As the world lurched ever closer to modernity, these dinners became less celebratory and more formal. Crystal and porcelain replaced wood and pewter. Tables grew in length, not to seat more people, but to accommodate the sudden swelling of place settings. Who decided spoons and glassware should come in threes? What was wrong with a simple knife and fork?

Toris sighed as he looked around at the feting guests. That was the thing with being immortal – the catch. You could always remember a time that was far simpler than the current one.

But even memories were subject to fault.

Toris' eyes swept the dining room once more. At the head of the table sat Secretary Honecker, East German head of state. To his right, Secretary Gorbachev. Next to him, of course, sat Ivan. Other East German Politburo members and their wives rounded out the gathering. Ivan had gone over their names during the flight from Moscow to East Berlin, but Toris was too preoccupied with not throwing up as the plane dipped and climbed during its turbulent trip.

They were there for the eleventh congress of the Socialist Unity Party. Well, _Ivan_ was. And Gorbachev. Toris had been dragged along to act as Ivan's security detail. As always.

Even at the dinner party. He kept to the room's perimeter. Occasionally stealing a moment to check the rest of the house for "threats." Really it was a chance to sneak a shot of vodka or a quick smoke. There was no need for additional security. The Waldsiedlung compound, which housed the most senior state leaders, had that covered. Nicknamed Wandlitz after the nearby town, the compound existed as its own walled utopia in the lush forests north of East Berlin. In addition to the wall that, Toris thought, greatly mimicked the much larger one surrounding West Berlin, troops from the Stasi's paramilitary wing kept the grounds under tight guard. Didn't want ordinary East German citizens discovering the luxuries in which their leaders indulged. Even Toris managed to relax a little as he and Ivan secretly enjoyed the amenities of the elite – tennis courts and a shooting range, a cinema and department store that only sold Western goods. Ivan was bound to denounce it all the moment the dinner ended and they were on their way back to the guest house, but Toris saw the smile spreading across his lips as he did backstrokes in the pool that afternoon.

"Join me for a smoke?" a voice said from behind, making Toris jump.

"Dammit, Gilbert."

The Prussian's face appeared in his periphery. Toris could practically feel the grin radiating off him.

"Is that a yes?"

Toris feigned disinterest. "We're supposed to be on duty."

Gilbert clicked his tongue. "Like that's stopped you."

Toris watched him from the corner of his eye.

"C'_mon_, Liet. Two of my guys can cover for us. 'Sides, I got something I know you'll like."

"And what might that be?"

"You'll have to come with me, to find out," Gilbert teased.

Toris took another look at the guests. Everyone was deep in conversation – talking, smiling, enjoying their drinks. Even Ivan.

Gilbert nudged his shoulder.

"All _right_," Toris hissed.

The Prussian's grin widened. He signaled behind him. Two guards appeared, as if condensing from the surrounding air. Toris shuddered, glad the light was dim, and followed Gilbert out.

Wispy clouds streaked the evening sky, pulling their veil over the setting sun. Its ember glow softened in pale oranges and purples. The black pavement shimmered beneath in bronze and silver. A rainstorm had passed while they'd been inside. A damp chill hung in the air.

Gilbert lit a cigarette the moment his foot was outside. He handed Toris his pack and lighter.

"Marlboros."

"Only the best Western tobacco for our glorious Eastern leaders," Gilbert said sardonically. "Let's go for a walk."

Gilbert shoved his hands in his pockets, only to pull them out moments later to return a salute from a couple of passing guards.

"Fuck," he muttered, shoulders rounding. The spark that lit his face in the dining room had noticeably dimmed. And Toris knew why.

Gilbert had been put in charge of his government's secret police. A role he never much relished but one he carried out as only his duty-bound nature would allow. And it was the only way to ensure his cooperation. Gilbert was not like the other satellite states. Whereas Erzsebet and Feliks were content to live the proletarian life among their citizens, Gilbert was the perpetual soldier. He needed structure, command, discipline, or else his misdirected energy would erupt in chaos. Therefore, the only way to keep him in check was to grant him some measure of power, perverse as it was.

They walked on a few silent moments. The grounds of Wandlitz were deserted, save for them. Everyone was at the dinner party.

The street ended at an intersection, beyond which stood a small forest. A path was just visible through the opening in the trees. Gilbert made his way toward it. Toris followed, tossing away his cigarette and drawing a deep breath the moment he was under tree cover. A wistful smile crossed his face as he gazed up at the canopy above. A cathedral of wood and greenery. The branches like rib vaulting. The leaves like stained glass.

An even light lit the forest as twilight fell. The shadows of night had yet to emerge as they traipsed through the undergrowth. All evidence of suburban paradise faded away. No streets, no lights, no houses. Toris felt himself grow taller with each stride. He stretched, back straightening with another slow inhale. He removed his cap, scratching his fingers over his scalp as locks of brown hair, free from their binding, tumbled down around his face.

Gilbert came to a halt and turned. A dark green wall stood in front of them, nearly camouflaged by the undergrowth. It stretched in either direction, running the perimeter of the forest.

"I'm surprised Ivan didn't have you cut it," Gilbert said, gesturing at Toris' hair.

"He's mentioned it. Several times."

Gilbert smirked. "He likes it too much."

Toris glanced away. Suddenly the forest canopy seemed a whole lot closer. The tall feeling he'd had moments before was fading.

"If all you wanted was to smoke and comment about my hair, we could have stayed at the house."

Gilbert dropped his cigarette. It hissed out on the wet ground.

"Why'd you drag me out here?" Toris pressed.

"I thought you'd like the walk." Gilbert shrugged. "Or maybe I'm just…sick of walls." He aimed a petulant glare at the one in front of them. "You and I — we're not _made_ to be kept inside, doing paperwork or…whatever. We need _this_." Eyes lifted heavenward, to the cathedral of leaves. "You felt it, didn't you?" An earnest look, almost pleading. "It feels right. Being out here."

"Yes," Toris said softly. "But things are different now."

Gilbert sniffed, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. The curve of his cheek glistened.

A gentle wind tugged at their uniform sleeves. A subtle reminder. They really ought to return.

Toris tucked his hair back under his cap. Gilbert kicked the wall with the toe of his boot. Above them, the leaves twisted and swayed like hands, inviting them to stay.

They left the woods in silence. Toris felt himself catapulted back to the present the moment they emerged. Houses and cars – all of suburbia – screamed at him under the electric glare of streetlights.

Gilbert fished his last cigarette out of his pocket. They shared it as they walked along the empty street, their booted heels scuffing the pavement. Neither was in any hurry to get back.

"I got a new tape player," Gilbert said, filling in the silence surrounding them.

"Oh? And what did that cost you?" Toris asked, thinking of the Western store in the village.

Lips unwound in a mischievous grin – one that revealed he had not paid a cent for it.

"You're despicable."

Gilbert waved the comment away. "They were a couple of Wessies. Students. Tryin' to sneak stuff in for black market sales."

"Hm. I'll bet they shit themselves silly."

"You have no idea. I swear, border patrol beats the hell out of this state dinner crap any day."

Gilbert finished the cigarette as they reached the house. "We should listen to it. We could go somewhere and listen. I'll pick you up. That is, if you can ditch dear old Vanya."

Toris glanced at the door. The sound of a piano and singing could be heard.

"Shouldn't be a problem."

Ivan was most likely a few drinks in by this point, Toris thought. He would be useless in the morning.

"Tomorrow, then?"

Gilbert grinned. "Tomorrow."

.

.

.

Toris paced in front of the guest house gates, half expecting to be summoned back any moment. A part of him hoped it would happen. Except Secretary Gorbachev was not likely to need _him _for anything – he preferred using his own men. Toris was only there because of Ivan.

He looked back over his shoulder, back at the guest house. Did anyone even care he wasn't there? Ivan hardly noticed his extended absence last night. And the Russian was deep asleep when Toris checked that morning. He knew from past experiences that Ivan would keep to his room the day after any celebration. But that knowledge did nothing to allay the twisting in the pit of his stomach.

Toris drank a cup of coffee before leaving. The serving staff paid him no mind as they bustled about their morning routines. He learned long ago to move with a sense of purpose and power to negate suspicion. Back straight. Eyes forward. Head level. People were less likely to bother you if you looked like you couldn't bother with them. It granted a certain degree of anonymity, a freedom to come and go as he pleased. It was a power Toris knew not to abuse. And he was all too aware of how suspicious he might look, standing outside the guest residence, if Gilbert didn't hurry the fuck up and show soon.

At that moment, the hammering sound of an engine could be heard echoing in the still morning air. Toris glanced back at the house, sure the racket was bound to bring someone outside. But none emerged.

A car appeared at the end of Tschaikowskistrasse. The yellowing color of spoiled milk, it rattled toward the guest house gate.

Gilbert pulled up, grinning from the driver's side window.

"What took so long?" Toris hissed.

"I had to make a pit stop," Gilbert said, motioning at the back seat. On it rested a case of beer. "I doubt Ivan let you bring anything."

Toris shook his head. "It wouldn't have been good anyway."

"Trust me, this is not my best work either. Are you gettin' in or what?"

The engine gave a loud clank.

"Is it…safe?"

"Only the DDR's very best," Gilbert smirked, thumping a hand on the side of the car.

Toris opened the door and slid in, wincing as his knees knocked into the dashboard. He and Gilbert sat shoulder to shoulder in the tiny, two door coupe.

Again Toris looked at the house, his gut churning with excitement and nerves.

"Everything okay?" Gilbert asked.

"Yeah – no. Fine. It's fine. Could we just go already?"

Gilbert shifted the car into gear. "You didn't clear it with him, did you?"

"I shouldn't have to," Toris muttered.

"You want a beer?"

Toris reached in the back, popping the top off a pilsner as the car drove from the guest house.

"I miss that farmhouse ale you used to make," Gilbert said.

"…So do I."

The tight maze of grey streets soon gave way to green farmland. Toris finished his beer and rolled the window down, breathing in the open air. The guest house seemed so far away already, though they could not have been driving more than a half hour. Toris glanced at his watch for confirmation. Beside him, Gilbert smirked.

"In a rush to get back?"

"No. I just – " Toris looked at the blur of fields rushing by. "Where are we going?"

"Relax, Liet. It's a road trip."

"I know. But I thought – I mean, I guess I _assumed_ – last night when you said we could go somewhere, that meant..."

"Meant what?"

"Your place." Toris cringed, immediately regretting saying it. And the lewd grin Gilbert flashed made him wish he could take it back all the more.

"I didn't think we'd be going so far out is all," the Lithuanian huffed, heat rising in his cheeks.

"What do you think would happen if the head of the secret police was caught listening to the same music he's worked so hard to ban?"

Toris shrugged. "What makes you so sure we _won't_ get caught?"

"Because there are more bugs in my apartment than in the countryside."

They shared a laugh.

The grin slid away from Gilbert's face. "I thought the open air would do you some good – would do us _both_ some good. You need time away from Ivan. He's had you wound up tight as a spring for – " Gilbert broke off. A pained look flitted across his face as he glanced at Toris.

Toris turned to the window, letting the crisp spring air fan his face. He knew what Gilbert was going to say. And he knew why Gilbert had stopped himself. He had been under Russian subjugation long before the Soviets. Aided in no small part by Prussia.

Gilbert cleared his throat and lit a cigarette. "Sorry."

"It's fine." A sharp answer, automatic on Toris' tongue.

Gilbert focused on the road, shifting up into the next gear. Toris' back pressed into the seat as they gained speed.

"What about you?" he asked at length.

Gilbert's brow knit, his eyes never leaving the road.

"You said the air would do us good," Toris continued. "So...what about you?"

Gilbert relaxed a little. He finished his cigarette and shrugged. "It's different. Out in the country, I mean. Quieter."

As with the previous night's walk, Toris suspected this was about something more than simply wanting to take a drive and listen to music outside the confines of wire-tapped walls. This was something larger – something Gilbert, for all his years spent chronicling his life and conquests, could not put into words.

The car rattled as Gilbert downshifted. They veered off to the right, around a small village, on the edge of which stood an old fort.

With a jolt, Toris realized where they were.

"We're near Poland, aren't we?"

"...Yeah."

They kept to the edge of the village, then turned onto a dirt track by an abandoned farm house. The car jostled over the rutted road, kicking up clouds of dust behind it. Toris was glad he skipped breakfast – his stomach could barely take the bumps empty.

The land on either side of the road had gone fallow. Tufts of grasses and ragweed sprouted up in rows where crops would have been. At the end of the field stood a small forest, marking the property line. The car slowed as they approached. Gilbert parked it under a low hanging bough, giving them shade and obscuring the car from the road, should anyone decide to venture down it. He got out and went around to the trunk. Toris followed, retrieving the beer from the back seat. He found Gilbert balancing a cassette player and blanket in one arm and a picnic basket slung over the other. Toris bit the inside of his cheek. Seeing the once great Prussia, now tottering on his heels, trying to negotiate the closing of a trunk lid while holding a picnic basket, was an admittedly endearing sight. Toris set the beer down and latched the lid. A sheepish grin peeked at him over the top.

Toris smirked. "You're welcome."

Gilbert headed for the trees. Toris did not follow immediately, taking a moment instead to look around at the fields and forest. There was something oddly familiar about it.

The air was still, silent, save for the occasional chirp of a bird. He crouched down, pressing his fingers into the earth, cool and damp. A smell lingered beneath its loamy scent. One of smoke and metal. Like campfires at night, the taste of iron on his tongue –

"You comin' or what?" Gilbert called, pulling Toris from his thoughts.

He stood, picking up the beer, and made his way to the woods.

Gilbert led them to a pebbled embankment beside a stream, beyond which stood another dense clump of trees. And further beyond that, more farm land. He spread the blanket, settling down onto it.

"What should we listen to first?" Gilbert asked. He rummaged in the picnic basket, taking out handful after handful of cassette tapes.

Toris sat, feeling himself deflate a little. Silly of him to think Gilbert had used a picnic basket for an actual meal rather than a means of transporting illegal tapes. His stomach growled its disappointment. He sighed, reaching behind him for a beer. He popped the top off, turning back around to find a sandwich wrapped in plastic placed before him. And an earnest-looking Gilbert. _I didn't forget_, his expression seemed to say. Toris' dismay eased into a small smile. He nodded his head in appreciation and began to eat.

Gilbert sifted through the pile of cassettes on the blanket, looking for a tape cover to catch his eye. The last time he had willingly listened to banned music was just before the war. He and Roderich would sneak off to dance and drink the night away in Berlin's underground swing clubs, much to his brother's chagrin. He had listened to the Beatles exactly once when his then-leader, Walter Ulbricht, played one of their records only to vociferously criticize their vocals. And he was also on hand for security purposes when Tangerine Dream performed at the Palast der Republik six years ago. These two instances marked the extent of Gilbert's knowledge of Western music, aside from the whisperings he heard in bars or articles in magazines found during raids. He always upheld his duty. Or some semblance of it, at least. He had caught plenty of people smuggling black market goods to his country. And he had always disposed of the contraband – usually by selling it on the very market to which it was predestined. Some things he kept for himself. He had a box full of cassettes and music magazines hidden behind a loose base board in his apartment, though he never listened to them. In the evenings, he would read the liner notes, read the articles, and imagine the sounds he would hear if he ever dared listen.

Some of the cassettes were ones he already had. Gilbert separated them from the rest, making a mental note to sell them later. Some of the artists' names he recognized. Others, he didn't. He arranged them all on the blanket, plucking the first one up. His hands shook slightly as he set the tape in the player, the click of the play button sounding unnaturally loud amid the quietude of the forest.

Toris was just finishing his meal as Nina Simone's deep, rich voice filled the air. A subtle smile spread across Gilbert's lips, eyes brightening as they caught Toris' gaze. The mind-bending sounds of the Velvet Underground came next, followed more soul and rock, German new wave and British punk. Then David Bowie, with Gilbert's face turning noticeably somber at "Heroes" and the mention of his Wall. Toris wordlessly handed him a beer, certain Gilbert would want to stop listening after that. But the Prussian picked up the final cassette, lips twisting in a smirk as he turned it over for Toris to see. Standing in front of the red and white stripes of the American flag was the rear-end of a man in blue jeans. A red baseball cap stuck out of his pocket.

"It's the Boss," Gilbert said.

"Whose boss?"

"I don't know. That's just what they call him."

Gilbert popped the tape in and hit the play button. A gravelly voice belted out lyrics over a drum and synthesizer, sounding like some kind of chewed up American English.

Toris laid down on the blanket, staring up at a canopy of leaves, like fingers laced together. And beyond that, an endless blue sky.

Toris closed his eyes, the sky and leaves imprinted behind his lids, an impression of light and dark. He remembered eyes, just as wide and blue, and how they would look at him. The name, a breath in his lungs, pushed out between parted lips. _Alfred_.

There was a noise beside him. The skittering of pebbles. Toris opened his eyes to see Gilbert raking his hand over the bank, scattering small stones here and there, mouth downturned in a brooding expression. Had he heard the whisper?

Gilbert's lip curved in a mocking smirk as he watched Toris. "When was the last time you spoke to Feliks?"

Toris propped himself up on his elbows, face darkening at the impertinent question and Gilbert's sudden, strange mood.

"What does it matter?" Toris asked.

Gilbert shrugged a shoulder. He had picked up a handful of pebbles and was trying to skim them across the bank. Toris couldn't help but notice a few deliberately landing near his arms, reminding him of the boy who used to chase him through the woods, pelting him with acorns.

He pushed himself up to sit cross-legged on the blanket and gathered up the scattered stones. A gust of wind blew through the branches. Again the faint scent of burning wood, the metallic taste.

Toris tossed a pebble back at Gilbert, hitting him square on the knee as he flipped the cassette over to Side B.

Gilbert's open-mouthed shock quickly morphed into a pointed grin. "Still a touchy subject, huh?"

Toris' eyes narrowed. "When was the last time you spoke to your brother?"

Gilbert glared back, reaching for his beer. He brought the bottle to his lips, frowned, then threw it at a tree.

Toris looked at his watch. It was after two.

Gilbert clicked his tongue. "Would you relax? I'll have you back in plenty of time, _Aschenputtel._"

"Why did you bring me out here?" Toris asked. "We passed dozens of forests on the way here. Why this one?"

Gilbert's eyes narrowed. He glared at Toris as if sizing him up for a fight. He then sighed and shook his head. "Maybe this was a mistake," he murmured.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Toris said snidely. "Gilbert Beilschmidt, admitting he's wrong?"

In the centuries they had known each other, Toris could count the number of times the other nation willingly admitted defeat on one hand. This would have made number four.

Gilbert's gaze hardened. Toris' muscles contracted, coiling like springs, ready for their verbal sparring to become physical, as it all too often had. But Gilbert just sniffed and looked away. He popped the top off another beer, taking turns between drinking it and moodily picking at a thread on the blanket.

Toris' muscles unwound. A dull pain throbbed in his hand. He had been clutching the pebbles in his fist during their whole exchange. He wanted to fling them away in exasperation, but instead Toris set them down on the bank. He had learned to temper himself centuries ago — one lesson the nation sitting across from him had helped deliver time and again. And one that same nation now had the unpleasant experience of learning in this new century. Toris almost pitied him in a way.

The cassette chimed in with an upbeat melody that hardly matched the mood settling over them. Toris reached over to turn it off.

"Don't," Gilbert said. "I like this one."

"Really?" Toris' nose wrinkled. "But it's just so..._American. _I don't know if I can listen to it anymore."

"But you said his name." Gilbert was watching Toris with a look the other could not quite place.

Heat rose in Toris' cheeks. So Gilbert _had _heard...

"It just reminded me of him. That's all."

"But the way you said it...No one would ever say my name like that," Gilbert murmured.

Toris looked away, unsure of what to say. He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, wishing they could just go back to Berlin. He noticed the sandwich, still sitting in front of Gilbert, untouched.

"You haven't eaten."

Gilbert puffed out a deprecating laugh. "Didn't know you cared."

Toris gaped back, incredulous. "Of course I care, Gilbert."

"Then why are you so different? Around me, I mean. It's not like when you were with Feliks or Alfred. Or Ivan. You're different. It's like you've...like you're always on guard whenever I'm around."

"Don't you think there's a reason for that?"

Centuries of conflict rose and fell in the span of seconds. They had grown up together, each on the opposing end of a blade. Now was no different, really.

Gilbert unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat. Silence stretched between them, filled only by the music playing on the stolen cassette player. Toris rested his chin on his knees and listened. In between the drum beats and piano riffs, he thought he heard the pounding of horses' hooves, the _clang _of iron striking iron. Suddenly he knew why this wood seemed so familiar.

"I've been here before," Toris said. "Must have been over six centuries ago. Rode right through here on my way to Berlin."

"I remember that," Gilbert said around a mouthful of food. "We were at peace then. Well, if you could call it that. I _hated_ not being able to fight you because of that stupid treaty."

Toris smirked. "You made up for it, as I recall. Many times."

"True. But it gave me a chance to watch you. You weren't the wimpy little kid hiding behind his shield anymore. You were terrifying."

Toris' eyes became distant. Not many seemed to remember what he had been like then. Centuries of subjugation had all but erased any echo of his medieval glory. But to him those memories were still near – whispered among woods, carried over fields, through lands that had once been _his._ The Last Pagan of Europe. All the western lands trembled at the mere mention of his name. Barbarian, they called him. So much so he began to believe it himself.

He remembered the way he looked back then. A teenager in appearance, only his eyes showed his real age. Peering out behind unkempt brown hair, sticky with dirt and sweat, was the hardened gaze of an old man. Forged from endless toil and tempered in constant battle. Their cast was offset by a thin, arrogantly grinning face that sacked the Germanic lands, filling its coffers with loot for its duke.

He remembered the boy – now the man sitting next to him. His hair had always been close cropped, even then. The boy's eyes, devilish in color, belied the cross on his tunic. He used to throw acorns and pinecones, sometimes rocks – whatever nature could give him – at Toris, teasing him, wanting him to fight back. They would chase each other through the woods, laughing and playing out their fights as only children do. As time went on, the acorns became arrows as the boy taught him how to use a bow. They rode out into the forest and practiced shooting targets marked on a tree. They would climb up into its boughs when they were done, resting their backs against its trunk and feeling as if the whole world belonged to them. The boy would jump down and swagger off, proudly proclaiming the number of bullseyes he hit. Toris would collect the arrows, diligently mending them or making more for next time. Then the arrows became swords as the boy began speaking of Christianity and conversion. They no longer smiled when they saw each other….

"We used to be superpowers," Gilbert said wistfully. "Not many nations can say that. I just...I miss it sometimes, you know? Things were simpler then."

"...I'm not so sure."

"Don't _you_ miss it? Even a little?"

Toris shook his head. His stomach felt hollow from hunger. It was one all nations knew — one that could not be sated by food alone – going beyond their corporeal being. It was the hunger that came from never being satisfied.

"The cost to keep that power – it wears on you."

"And what we do now doesn't?" Gilbert asked, looking stricken. "All the secrecy, the lies…."

"It does. But…I know it won't last forever."

"H-how, though?"

Toris maneuvered himself to sit closer. Gilbert's shoulders noticeably tensed – the arrogant knight suddenly so vulnerable, sitting on a picnic blanket.

"I've learned to wait for the right moment, then act."

Gilbert puffed out a laugh. "Yeah. I suppose. You _were_ always better at strategizing."

"It's called not being impetuous," Toris said, nudging his shoulder with a teasing grin.

Gilbert gave him a small smile, but a question lurked in his eyes.

The cassette player stopped. The empty silence left in its place was soon taken up by the sounds of the small wood.

"I suppose we ought to head back," Gilbert said.

"…We could stay a little while longer."

Gilbert shook his head. "There's no guarantee that my Trabant won't turn into a pumpkin, _Aschenputtel_."

He began wordlessly packing the tapes back into the basket. Toris helped. Then both stood and folded up the blanket.

They walked in silence back to the car.

"…Do you think we'll ever look back on our time now and remember any of it as good?" Gilbert asked as he stowed the basket and cassette player in the trunk.

"Maybe," Toris said, handing him the blanket.

"…What about today?"

Toris smiled. "I think so."

.

.

.

It was nearing five o'clock in the evening by the time they arrived back in Berlin. Toris' anticipation grew with each turn, until he found himself staring down a long, shady street at the end of which stood the state guest house. The buildings on either side pressed in, making the street feel narrower as they passed. Grass sprang up through cracks in the sidewalk. Black graffiti tagged the sides of rundown buildings. A chain link fence surrounded an empty lot, beyond which trees and weeds had been allowed to grow unchecked, much like the fallow field. Yet somehow this lot looked sadder, surrounded by metal and concrete, rusting lampposts and crumbling asphalt – reminders of this new modern century. How had he not noticed these things before? Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to seeing it to really care.

Gilbert pulled the car up in front of the guest house gates. Toris' hands were balled into fists on his thighs. Through the black metal and the tree-lined drive, the cream colored façade of Schönhausen Palace could be seen. It belonged to a different world compared to what stood just beyond it. And perhaps, for all of their bluster, that's exactly how their eastern leaders wanted it. Toris had half a mind to run, run and never look back – if only he wasn't frozen in his seat.

Beside him, Gilbert lit a cigarette.

"Hey," he said gently, catching Toris' attention. "It's not the right moment yet." He reached over, covering the Lithuanian's hand with his own.

Toris' fist unwound, letting Gilbert's fingers slip into his palm. "You're right."

"It won't last forever."

"…I know."

He drew a deep breath and opened the door.

.

.

.

**June 1993, near Vilnius**

Toris pressed his hand to the dirt. It was still damp from the rain two nights ago. Good. He wouldn't need his trowel after all. And he much preferred harvesting potatoes by hand – less chance of him puncturing his tubers and having them rot.

He knelt down, the soil cool against his skin as it soaked up through the knees of his pants. The mid-morning sun warmed his back as his hands gently scooped away the small mound of dirt gathered around the plant stalk. It was going to be hot later that afternoon, he thought, as he pulled it out. A few small potatoes clung to its roots. He loosened them, tossing them into his bucket, before plunging his hands back into the earth to retrieve the larger tubers. His potato garden was not large – he grew enough for himself and anything extra he could sell. He estimated an hour to have passed by the time he finished.

Toris stood and brushed himself down. His hair, having come loose from its binding as he worked, now clung to his sweat-dampened forehead. He smoothed the strands back with soil stained fingers, then picked up his bucket and went in to wash.

His farm was small, consisting of his house, outbuilding, garden, and apiary. A split rail fence separated everything from the fields where he grew his grain and hops for brewing. It was just far enough away from the city to not be a hassle should he need to drive in for a meeting.

After he finished washing the potatoes, Toris put them in a burlap bag and took them down to the cellar to store. He then cleaned himself up, selected a book from his modest collection, and curled up on his sofa to read as he awaited the arrival of his guest.

His house was quiet.

.

.

.

Evening was falling when there was a knock at his door. Toris opened it, wholly unsurprised to find a disgruntled Gilbert standing on the other side.

It had become a routine. Every few months, Gilbert would call, asking if he could come and stay for a few days. Ever since Toris had declared his independence and left that house in Moscow. Like his farm, Gilbert's visits gave a measure of structure and predictability to his life. Things were still tenuous; the dust was still settling after the collapse of one of the last great superpowers. He had experienced it all before, during the partitions two centuries ago. The feeling of immobility, the waiting and anticipation for what would happen next were all things he was familiar with. Toris had the impression Gilbert felt the same way, learning to live with his brother again – and now as a single nation – after decades apart.

"I don't care what that brat across the Atlantic says, flying is the _worst_ way to travel," Gilbert groused, pushing past Toris and depositing his bags on the sofa.

"Faster than driving, though."

Gilbert grumbled something under his breath.

"If it was up to you, we'd still be using horses," Toris smirked.

"Damn right."

"And you would have gotten here in two weeks instead of two hours."

Gilbert waved the comment away. "Please tell me you have beer."

"Of course."

Toris went down to the cellar and grabbed an armful of bottles from his latest batch. Back upstairs, he set them down on the table in his kitchen. Gilbert happily seated himself and popped the top off the nearest one while Toris busied himself making dinner.

They ate outside that evening. At a table under a wide, shady tree. A small battery-powered radio added its low music hum to the night sounds of birds and crickets chirping in the distant woods. Toris considered it a mark of how well they knew each other that they could enjoy a meal in comfortable silence. They were as much friends now as they had been enemies.

After the plates were cleared away, Toris returned with a beer for each of them. Gilbert sat on the table, looking up at the first stars as the sky darkened. An odd grin lit up his face.

"Do you remember this one?" he asked, nodding at the radio.

Toris sat beside him and listened.

"That day we went for a drive?" Gilbert prompted. "I brought all those cassette tapes."

"Yes. You said the singer was a boss."

Gilbert snickered. "_The _Boss." He drank his beer, humming along with the lyrics.

"I still have them. The tapes. One of the few things I kept. I listen to them sometimes. When West is out of the house. They're not – it's not really his taste." Gilbert forced a laugh. "He just doesn't get it," he murmured, shaking his head.

Toris took his hand. Gilbert stiffened a moment before letting his fingers interlace with Toris'. He edged closer, cautiously resting his cheek on the Lithuanian's shoulder, as if afraid such a gesture would earn him a rebuke. But Toris was too tired of fighting. They had spent centuries fighting. Now it was time for something different. He smiled to himself, feeling the weight of another press against him. Gilbert had finally relaxed. Toris finally understood now why he wanted to go on that road trip all those years ago. He pressed his lips to silver strands, sparing a moment to gaze up at the stars above, before shutting his eyes and letting a breath slip out of his lungs with the whisper: _Gilbert._

**_Ende_**

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* * *

Notes:

The title is in reference to the Bruce Springsteen song "Glory Days". The Boss is Springsteen's nickname. He also gave a concert in East Berlin in 1988, and my original intent was to work that into plot – but my original intent was also to make this more of a humorous story and you see how well that worked out

Waldsiedlung was the secure housing zone for leaders of the GDR. Nicknamed Wandlitz for the village nearby, the people of East Germany had no idea it existed or what luxuries their leaders lived in. It was surrounded by a fence proclaiming it to be a wildlife research facility. There was an interior wall beyond that. The community had, among other things, a cinema, restaurant, and department store that specialized in selling western goods. It was guarded by the paramilitary unit of the Stasi (East German secret police).

The official guest house of the GDR was called Niederschoenhausen. Located in the Pankow district of East Berlin, it was the former Baroque palace of Schoenhausen.

Gil's car is of course a Trabi (Trabant)

Lithuanian farm house ale - there's a great beer brewing tradition in Lithuania that, until recently, has largely gone unnoticed by the rest of the world. During Soviet occupation, beer, like everything else, was heavily relegated and home brewing was outlawed.

Toris/Feliks relationship: I head canon them to have a…not very good relationship in the 20th century – which is why Gilbert brings it up, trying to provoke Toris. This is mainly due to several reasons: Lithuania chose to pursue independence after WW1 rather than try to reestablish the old Polish-Lithuanian union; border/territory disputes erupted, notably over the city of Vilnius (Wilno), which led to the Polish-Lithuanian war in 1919-20; and their relations, already tenuous going into WW2, were not much better after, and were further exacerbated by being subsumed by Communism and the Soviet Union.

Aschenputtel: German for Cinderella

Raid on Brandenburg: alluded to when Toris mentions riding through the forest where they're picnicking

"He had been under Russian subjugation long before the Soviets. Aided in no small part by Prussia." – Prussia, along with Austria and Russia, orchestrated the partitions of Poland and Lithuania, thus dissolving the Commonwealth


End file.
